From the Archives: For Your Stimulus Only
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| Biden cries U.N.C.L.E. upon receiving the Order of the Beard for Providing Useful Cover to the Marxist Man from U.R.K.E.L. It will sit alongside his other awards, America's Creepy Uncle, Most Laps Swum Nude in Front of Female Secret Service Agents, Vice-President Hair Club for Men and Slurpee Customer of the Year, 1987 |
But around here, we know him from way back, as Joe Biden, International Man of Mystery and noted N.Y. Times-reading author
"The Spy Who Revised and Extended Me: The Theory of the Sanitary Executive" by Sen. Joe Biden with Neil Kinnock (in all likelihood plagiarized from very short story 'Terrror at Two Thousand Feet' by Ace O. Spades with H.L. Mencken)
Chapter Zero
Chapter One
With my cocked .45 in one hand and a loaded New York Times in the other, I made my way unseen to the cockpit. I knocked on the door. Nothing. So I kicked it open. Hard. Judging from the gash on his forehead, the pilot was unconscious from where the door had just hit him.
Poor bastard. How was I supposed to know he was coming to open the door?
Settling into his seat, I pulled the stick back hard, hoping to gain some altitude. No such luck. Visibility was slipping away now, and the night was almost as thick an IRS addendum on the depreciation allowance tables for solar and renewable energy credits.
I wondered if she would be waiting for me when this mission was over. I wondered if I should turn on the little "No Smoking" signs. I wondered 'Ya know, why do we even have those signs--smoking has been totally banned for 20 years?"--and then I realized "Hey-I don't have to decide--that's above my pay grade!"
With darkness closing in on me like Bill Clinton's Arkansas state troopers around a frightened cocktail waitress, I jerked the stick to starboard in a desperate attempt to get the craft to respond. Nothing. I jerked the stick back to port; still nothing. And then it hit me; "Hey--I don't even know the difference between starboard and port!"
Suddenly, I sensed danger. It was the same feeling I got once when Iserved in 'Nam was served in a Vietnamese restaurant. The tingle of danger reminded me of the hot, burning truth: "Hey; I'm missing "Hardball"!"
That's when I heard the footsteps. I checked my .45. It was still cold, so I finished drinking it. The enemy was nearly here. I grabbed my parachute as the voices got closer...
"Amtrak security, Senator--what are you doing in engineer's cab, sir?"
Starboard's the one on the left, right?
Chapter Two
The prop-wash kicked up that old familiar smell.
It was the smell of death, lingering like Larry Craig at an airport men's room.
And then it came back to me, like the way Bill Maher keeps re-living that unfortunate camp counselor incident; that's not "the smell of death"--I'd just forgotten to change my skivvies in Bangalore.
"No time for that now," I thought. "I'm here on a secret mission from the Officially Officious Office of the President-Select. I've got only one goal; to find bin Laden. Also "Nala", the beautiful village maiden Barack met on his trip to Pakistan back in the '80's. Okay; that's really two goals. But still."
I had just gotten up from my seat and was starting to exit Air Force-Elect Two, when the stewardess asked "Uhh..aren't you going to flush that, sir?"
"Sorry, 'bout that, ma'am."
"And buckle your pants?"
"Sorry again, ma'am."
I could tell already that this was going to be a rough tour in a rough country--and especially if I was going to have to flush my own toilets. And wear pants. I made a mental note to have the stewardess fired.
I debarked the aircraft--or is it "disembarked"? No, I think it's "debarked". No, wait--come to think of it, I think it is "disembarked". Sorta' like "disembowel". Speaking of, I think I smell "death" again.
Anyway, I put on my shades against the torrid glare of the afternoon Asian sun. Then I took them off. Put them back on. Then off. On. Off. OnOffOnOffOnOff. Great Ganesh, but that's fun! No wonder Duchovny likes that so much.
But deep down, I knew the fun couldn't last. Somewhere out there was guy named bin Laden, seven feet tall and dragging a kidney dialysis machine around behind him, with a great big target painted on his back.
At least, I hoped he had a target painted on his back; it was the only way I'd ever find him. Suddenly, out of the corner of the corner of my eye, I spotted them; two armed men following me, trying to appear inconspicuous.
I gave the first one an elbow to the throat. The other one's eyes got wide as I grabbed his necktie. "WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?" I screamed.
"Se...Secret Service, Mr. Vice-President!" he stammered.
Relaxing my grip on his tie, I told him "That's "Mr. Vice-President-ELECT, pal; we only have one vice-president at a time!"
Somehow, I would have to find a way to blame this on Cheney, like all the times before. I made a mental note to have those agents fired.
If there's one thing I know, it's that I would have to act quickly, secretly and with deadly force. Okay, that's three things--but still.
I got my satellite phone out, set it up on the tripod and pointed it at Tel-Star. A nice seven foot-tall man dragging a kidney dialysis machine around behind him helped me. I was ready to get my instructions from Washington.
With the Inauguration only days away, Barack had decided to send me half-way around the world on a potentially deadly mission in complete secrecy. Say--you don't suppose he's trying to get rid...no, no--that's just crazy talk.
The sat-phone went dead.
I smell "death" again. Is there a laundromat in this town?
Chapter Three
Just then, my cell phone rang. It was my secretary, reminding me that I needed to pay my satellite phone bill or it would get shut off. I made a mental note to send $53.16 to the sat-phone company plus an additional $5 Billion just in case they needed money. And to fire my secretary.
As I hung up my cell phone, I realized I would have to find another way to contact Washington. But how?
And then I saw her face. Now I'm a believer. Not a trace of doubt in...plagiarism? What plagiarism? I haven't been accused of plagiarism since I was a wee little laddie, working in the coal mines of northern England alongside Lord Kinnock's family. Why do you ask?
Anyway, there she was. "Nala", the beautiful village maiden that Barack had fallen in love with all those years ago. Sure she was older now. In fact, she looked like ten miles of bad upcoming infrastructure project. I made my way through the crowded and ancient bazzar, unchanged by the centuries, where quaint local merchants were selling handmade rugs, dates, olives and ICBM components purchased from the Clinton administration.
"Do you know who I am and why I'm here?" I asked her. I was really hoping she did, cos' I wasn't really sure myself.
"Yes--you have come in the name of Hope and Change, bearing my bailout." Nala's eyes began to dampen until she leaking like a Big Dig tunnel ceiling in Boston.
It was then that I noticed the teenage boy beside her. There was something familiar about him, and yet...
Nala explained to me that Barack had fallen in love with her--but she had fallen in love with one of his more mature travelling companions.
"Roland Burris is a Love God and the Father of my Love-Child!" she blurted out.
Somehow I sensed that those words would end up chiseled on his mausoleum in Chicago. Now it all made perfect sense; how else to explain Barack's bizarre refusal to seat Roland Burris in the Senate?
I gave the letters of transit to Nala and Roland, Jr.--after all, the problems of two people don't amount to a hill of organic, non-GMO, gluten-free, free-trade, fair trade, cage free Starbucks coffee beans in this crazy world.
I went back to the hotel and packed my bags. Even though I hadn't found bin Laden, my mission here was complete. The bellhop, a kindly seven foot-tall man with a kidney dialysis machine trailing behind him, helped me load my bags into the car. He asked if I would mind delivering this suitcase to his cousin in New York. I don't mind. I gave him a dollar so he could buy a Slurpee. I told him to bring me the change.
Get out of my house, Cheney--I'm comin' home!
Um...anybody seen my sunglasses? Or the tall guy? Or my change?
Chapter Three Again
It was a dark and stormy night. Except that it was sunny out. and clear. and about 2:30 in the afternoon. But other than that, it was a dark and stormy night.
The night smelled like danger. As it turns out, danger smells a lot like an old Amtrak seat cover from the DC to Dover Express. But I digest.
I knew if I told her about my mission, I would have to kill her--or at a minimum, send her a strongly-worded letter. Hey--don't kid yourself, pal; those things can wound. Deeply.
I hugged the compound wall as I made my way across the estate. Somewhere in there was "The Terrorist", the organization's shadowy Number Two man, a stone-cold killer known to shoot innocent men right in the face.
In hopes of blending in with the locals, I was in full Lawrence-of-Arabia attire. They weren't going to make me in a million years...
"Hi, Joe! What are you doing in those sheets?" How many times had I asked Sen. Byrd that very same question?
Damn! There he was--"The Terrorist", Dick Cheney! And he had penetrated my cover!
"Hey, Lynn; Joe Biden's here! Bring us some of that special lemonade, would you, hon?" How many times had I heard Ted Kennedy ask that same question?
"Oh, hi, Joe," said Mrs. Cheney. "What are you doing here? And why the burqua?" How many times had Larry Craig asked me that same question?
"So it's going to be the old "Good Cop/Bad Cop"-routine," I thought to myself, because it's really hard to think to someone else. Beneath my robes, I reached into my pocket and felt the smooth, pearly handle of my Smith and Wesson .357 Derringer Thompson Sub-Machine Gun Walther Mitty Special. And then I remembered: I'd left my gun at home on the dresser.
I decided to play along and began chanting in Arabic: "Get out of Biden's house! Get out of Biden's house! Get out of..."
"Hah, that's funny , Joe," said Cheney "but the Inauguration isn't for another month. Say, Joe, I've been wondering--you've pledged to be the most useless, uninvolved, non-productive vice-president in history; what are you going to do with all that spare time--besides your rich fantasy life, I mean?"
Cruel bastard. No wonder they called him "The Terrorist".
"You need a hobby, Joe," Cheney continued. "For instance, I make home movies. I've even got one of the entire Democrat leadership signing off on waterboarding and wiretapping. Would you like to see it, Joe?"
Suddenly, I felt myself getting red in the face and hot under the keffiyah. Mrs. Cheney must have put drugs in the lemonade! But there was no time to ask for seconds now. I made a break for it. I vaulted the wall of the Blair House compound like a co-ed fleeing Hyanisport. Barely making it back to the safe house while concious, I collapsed on the bed like a promise from Arafat. The next thing I remember, a month had passed and I was standing there taking the oath of office.
I spied Terrorist in the crowd, his cruel eyes mocking me. He'd come to the event in a wheelchair, hoping that I would ask him to stand up. As I finished my remarks by Lord Kinnock, right then and there I made a solemn vow to myself: never again would I wear women's clothing in public. on a weekday. in this country, anyway. And to write a screenplay for my new home movie.
Let's see... "It was a dark and stormy night..." .....................
UPDATE: Well, we now know how the story ended. Joe's helicopter was "downed"--by the bad weather he so foolishly ignored. But he did finally find bin Laden, due to the waterboarding of Khalid Sheik Mohammed--thanks, Pres. Bush!
Biden's running-mate went on to wreck the economy, set the world on fire, divide the nation, bankrupt the Treasury, ruin health care and empower all of America's enemies--but on the positive side, Joe finally mastered dominoes and Greek cooking and is currently working on his next book, "The Hunt For Reds in Dover: AMemewar Memoior Memoire Bunch of Stuff That Happened to Me"
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| “If you want to know where Al Qaeda lives, you want to know where Bin Laden is, come back to Afghanistan with me. Come back to the area where my helicopter was forced down, with a three-star general and three senators at 10,500 feet in the middle of those mountains. I can tell you where they are.” |
"The Spy Who Revised and Extended Me: The Theory of the Sanitary Executive" by Sen. Joe Biden with Neil Kinnock (in all likelihood plagiarized from very short story 'Terrror at Two Thousand Feet' by Ace O. Spades with H.L. Mencken)
Chapter Zero
The snow was coming down as heavy as Michael Moore after a Coney Island hot dog-eating contest. I sensed the nervousness of the crew. "You're making me nervous," said the pilot. "Stop that." I took my hand off his leg. And put my shirt back on."Buck up, boys," says I. "This is our only chance to catch bin Laden before the brutal Afghan winter sets in like Barbara Walters on another married black senator. Does everybody have their Miranda Warning index cards with them?"
No one had any, so I gave them each some of the extra copies I had made. I looked over at Gen. Bichslapp. He kept looking at me, and then he would look away, crying. Fear will do that to a man. This wasn't going to be a picnic, so I checked my gear one last time. Survival knife--check. Survival rations--check. Survival tent--check. Second helicopter right behind us with fully-stocked commissary, bar, hot showers and native porters--check.
I leaned in to speak to the General. He looked at me and began to cry again. "Get a grip on yourself, man. Let's get this bird in the air. I've got to catch bin Laden so I can go home and help my friend Barack Obama bring Hope and Change." He was crying harder now. I was scared, too. But I was determined not to let it show on my face the way it was already showing in my Depends LeakGuard Moisture Indicator Strip.
The rotors strained against the brutal Afghan sky as we took off into the brutal Afghan winter. Soon we were plunging down the brutal Afghan valley, flying just above the Superhighway of Terror looking for the cloverleaf at exit 63A that would take us to 1234 Mockingbird Lane, a modest little split-level where bin Laden lives. Brutally. I wanted to pull over and ask directions but the General wouldn't let us. I was just about to ask if we could stop to use the little boys' room when it hit us.
I don't know if it was a Stinger or an RPG, but we were going down fast, as fast as Hillary Clinton cashes a personal check from a Chinese arms dealer. I hugged the floor like Tommy Smothers after a three-day Napa wine tasting. We hit hard, like Bill Maher on a 17-year-old borderline-mental cabana waitress at the Playboy Mansion. Looking up through the dust, all I could make out was a uniformed airman holding the escape hatch open for me...
"First floor, Senate gym, sir--they're expecting you for your usual 10:30 sauna and rubdown. And they're serving an arugula quiche in the cafeteria today."
bin Laden would have to wait.
Chapter One
With my cocked .45 in one hand and a loaded New York Times in the other, I made my way unseen to the cockpit. I knocked on the door. Nothing. So I kicked it open. Hard. Judging from the gash on his forehead, the pilot was unconscious from where the door had just hit him.
Poor bastard. How was I supposed to know he was coming to open the door?
Settling into his seat, I pulled the stick back hard, hoping to gain some altitude. No such luck. Visibility was slipping away now, and the night was almost as thick an IRS addendum on the depreciation allowance tables for solar and renewable energy credits.
I wondered if she would be waiting for me when this mission was over. I wondered if I should turn on the little "No Smoking" signs. I wondered 'Ya know, why do we even have those signs--smoking has been totally banned for 20 years?"--and then I realized "Hey-I don't have to decide--that's above my pay grade!"
With darkness closing in on me like Bill Clinton's Arkansas state troopers around a frightened cocktail waitress, I jerked the stick to starboard in a desperate attempt to get the craft to respond. Nothing. I jerked the stick back to port; still nothing. And then it hit me; "Hey--I don't even know the difference between starboard and port!"
Suddenly, I sensed danger. It was the same feeling I got once when I
That's when I heard the footsteps. I checked my .45. It was still cold, so I finished drinking it. The enemy was nearly here. I grabbed my parachute as the voices got closer...
"Amtrak security, Senator--what are you doing in engineer's cab, sir?"
Starboard's the one on the left, right?
Chapter Two
The prop-wash kicked up that old familiar smell.
It was the smell of death, lingering like Larry Craig at an airport men's room.
And then it came back to me, like the way Bill Maher keeps re-living that unfortunate camp counselor incident; that's not "the smell of death"--I'd just forgotten to change my skivvies in Bangalore.
"No time for that now," I thought. "I'm here on a secret mission from the Officially Officious Office of the President-Select. I've got only one goal; to find bin Laden. Also "Nala", the beautiful village maiden Barack met on his trip to Pakistan back in the '80's. Okay; that's really two goals. But still."
I had just gotten up from my seat and was starting to exit Air Force-Elect Two, when the stewardess asked "Uhh..aren't you going to flush that, sir?"
"Sorry, 'bout that, ma'am."
"And buckle your pants?"
"Sorry again, ma'am."
I could tell already that this was going to be a rough tour in a rough country--and especially if I was going to have to flush my own toilets. And wear pants. I made a mental note to have the stewardess fired.
I debarked the aircraft--or is it "disembarked"? No, I think it's "debarked". No, wait--come to think of it, I think it is "disembarked". Sorta' like "disembowel". Speaking of, I think I smell "death" again.
Anyway, I put on my shades against the torrid glare of the afternoon Asian sun. Then I took them off. Put them back on. Then off. On. Off. OnOffOnOffOnOff. Great Ganesh, but that's fun! No wonder Duchovny likes that so much.
But deep down, I knew the fun couldn't last. Somewhere out there was guy named bin Laden, seven feet tall and dragging a kidney dialysis machine around behind him, with a great big target painted on his back.
At least, I hoped he had a target painted on his back; it was the only way I'd ever find him. Suddenly, out of the corner of the corner of my eye, I spotted them; two armed men following me, trying to appear inconspicuous.
I gave the first one an elbow to the throat. The other one's eyes got wide as I grabbed his necktie. "WHO ARE YOU WORKING FOR?" I screamed.
"Se...Secret Service, Mr. Vice-President!" he stammered.
Relaxing my grip on his tie, I told him "That's "Mr. Vice-President-ELECT, pal; we only have one vice-president at a time!"
Somehow, I would have to find a way to blame this on Cheney, like all the times before. I made a mental note to have those agents fired.
If there's one thing I know, it's that I would have to act quickly, secretly and with deadly force. Okay, that's three things--but still.
I got my satellite phone out, set it up on the tripod and pointed it at Tel-Star. A nice seven foot-tall man dragging a kidney dialysis machine around behind him helped me. I was ready to get my instructions from Washington.
With the Inauguration only days away, Barack had decided to send me half-way around the world on a potentially deadly mission in complete secrecy. Say--you don't suppose he's trying to get rid...no, no--that's just crazy talk.
The sat-phone went dead.
I smell "death" again. Is there a laundromat in this town?
Chapter Three
Just then, my cell phone rang. It was my secretary, reminding me that I needed to pay my satellite phone bill or it would get shut off. I made a mental note to send $53.16 to the sat-phone company plus an additional $5 Billion just in case they needed money. And to fire my secretary.
As I hung up my cell phone, I realized I would have to find another way to contact Washington. But how?
And then I saw her face. Now I'm a believer. Not a trace of doubt in...plagiarism? What plagiarism? I haven't been accused of plagiarism since I was a wee little laddie, working in the coal mines of northern England alongside Lord Kinnock's family. Why do you ask?
Anyway, there she was. "Nala", the beautiful village maiden that Barack had fallen in love with all those years ago. Sure she was older now. In fact, she looked like ten miles of bad upcoming infrastructure project. I made my way through the crowded and ancient bazzar, unchanged by the centuries, where quaint local merchants were selling handmade rugs, dates, olives and ICBM components purchased from the Clinton administration.
"Do you know who I am and why I'm here?" I asked her. I was really hoping she did, cos' I wasn't really sure myself.
"Yes--you have come in the name of Hope and Change, bearing my bailout." Nala's eyes began to dampen until she leaking like a Big Dig tunnel ceiling in Boston.
It was then that I noticed the teenage boy beside her. There was something familiar about him, and yet...
Nala explained to me that Barack had fallen in love with her--but she had fallen in love with one of his more mature travelling companions.
"Roland Burris is a Love God and the Father of my Love-Child!" she blurted out.
Somehow I sensed that those words would end up chiseled on his mausoleum in Chicago. Now it all made perfect sense; how else to explain Barack's bizarre refusal to seat Roland Burris in the Senate?
I gave the letters of transit to Nala and Roland, Jr.--after all, the problems of two people don't amount to a hill of organic, non-GMO, gluten-free, free-trade, fair trade, cage free Starbucks coffee beans in this crazy world.
I went back to the hotel and packed my bags. Even though I hadn't found bin Laden, my mission here was complete. The bellhop, a kindly seven foot-tall man with a kidney dialysis machine trailing behind him, helped me load my bags into the car. He asked if I would mind delivering this suitcase to his cousin in New York. I don't mind. I gave him a dollar so he could buy a Slurpee. I told him to bring me the change.
Get out of my house, Cheney--I'm comin' home!
Um...anybody seen my sunglasses? Or the tall guy? Or my change?
 |
| Super-Secret Agent Joe Biden, Bureau of Weights and Measures, Miami Office His Middle Name is "Danger"--and his Running Mate's Middle Name is--well, We're Not Allowed to Talk about That! |
Chapter Three Again
It was a dark and stormy night. Except that it was sunny out. and clear. and about 2:30 in the afternoon. But other than that, it was a dark and stormy night.
The night smelled like danger. As it turns out, danger smells a lot like an old Amtrak seat cover from the DC to Dover Express. But I digest.
I knew if I told her about my mission, I would have to kill her--or at a minimum, send her a strongly-worded letter. Hey--don't kid yourself, pal; those things can wound. Deeply.
I hugged the compound wall as I made my way across the estate. Somewhere in there was "The Terrorist", the organization's shadowy Number Two man, a stone-cold killer known to shoot innocent men right in the face.
In hopes of blending in with the locals, I was in full Lawrence-of-Arabia attire. They weren't going to make me in a million years...
"Hi, Joe! What are you doing in those sheets?" How many times had I asked Sen. Byrd that very same question?
Damn! There he was--"The Terrorist", Dick Cheney! And he had penetrated my cover!
"Hey, Lynn; Joe Biden's here! Bring us some of that special lemonade, would you, hon?" How many times had I heard Ted Kennedy ask that same question?
"Oh, hi, Joe," said Mrs. Cheney. "What are you doing here? And why the burqua?" How many times had Larry Craig asked me that same question?
"So it's going to be the old "Good Cop/Bad Cop"-routine," I thought to myself, because it's really hard to think to someone else. Beneath my robes, I reached into my pocket and felt the smooth, pearly handle of my Smith and Wesson .357 Derringer Thompson Sub-Machine Gun Walther Mitty Special. And then I remembered: I'd left my gun at home on the dresser.
I decided to play along and began chanting in Arabic: "Get out of Biden's house! Get out of Biden's house! Get out of..."
"Hah, that's funny , Joe," said Cheney "but the Inauguration isn't for another month. Say, Joe, I've been wondering--you've pledged to be the most useless, uninvolved, non-productive vice-president in history; what are you going to do with all that spare time--besides your rich fantasy life, I mean?"
Cruel bastard. No wonder they called him "The Terrorist".
"You need a hobby, Joe," Cheney continued. "For instance, I make home movies. I've even got one of the entire Democrat leadership signing off on waterboarding and wiretapping. Would you like to see it, Joe?"
Suddenly, I felt myself getting red in the face and hot under the keffiyah. Mrs. Cheney must have put drugs in the lemonade! But there was no time to ask for seconds now. I made a break for it. I vaulted the wall of the Blair House compound like a co-ed fleeing Hyanisport. Barely making it back to the safe house while concious, I collapsed on the bed like a promise from Arafat. The next thing I remember, a month had passed and I was standing there taking the oath of office.
I spied Terrorist in the crowd, his cruel eyes mocking me. He'd come to the event in a wheelchair, hoping that I would ask him to stand up. As I finished my remarks by Lord Kinnock, right then and there I made a solemn vow to myself: never again would I wear women's clothing in public. on a weekday. in this country, anyway. And to write a screenplay for my new home movie.
Let's see... "It was a dark and stormy night..." .....................
UPDATE: Well, we now know how the story ended. Joe's helicopter was "downed"--by the bad weather he so foolishly ignored. But he did finally find bin Laden, due to the waterboarding of Khalid Sheik Mohammed--thanks, Pres. Bush!
Biden's running-mate went on to wreck the economy, set the world on fire, divide the nation, bankrupt the Treasury, ruin health care and empower all of America's enemies--but on the positive side, Joe finally mastered dominoes and Greek cooking and is currently working on his next book, "The Hunt For Reds in Dover: A
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